Devils' Night
by Moral Mark
Summary: Facing an urban legend that has come to life in the most unholy of days, the Legendary Son of Sparda meets yet another modern legend - The Man Without Fear.
1. Eve

HALLOWEEN EVE. MIDNIGHT.  
  
"That's right, fools, wha' sup?!"  
  
"Yea, yea yea, y'all got nuthin!"  
  
Two men breathed heavily as they picked themselves up, half-surprised they were able to scale the towering fence behind them. Howling and shouting into the cold, night autumn air, pumping their fists and pointing their fingers out across the chain-link fence, the other side revealed a larger group of heavy-coat figures, with red bandanas wrapped across their foreheads. Between them was the chain-link fence, which alone wouldn't have held the attacking pack off. But also between them was the street, and a police cruiser that recently turned the corner and parked against the curb.  
  
"Happy Halloween, ya freaky mutha fuckas!" shouted the first man.  
  
"Suerte', ha ha ha!" added the second.  
  
Lucky indeed, for accidentally walking into a gang-beating at night especially in this neighborhood usually condemned a good night to go bad, including a more than healthy dose of bad luck. However, quick legs and blind luck gave the running two considerable distance between them and the hoard that was after them; several blocks later, the two could have very well walked their escape. Half a block and a scaled fence later showed a police cruiser that pulled around the intersection, parking in front of the convenience store, arriving late enough not to spot the two but on time enough to hold their pursuers at bay across the street.  
  
"Hey, man, let's go. Let's get the hell out of here, man."  
  
One stuffed his hands inside his coat pockets while the other pulled his hood over his head.  
  
"Hey Manuel, isn't Halloween tomorrow?" asked the hooded man.  
  
Manuel pulled his right hand out of his pocket and tapped the watch across his wrist. "Twelve-ten in the AM, Benny. New day. It's all where it begins."  
  
Benny shrugged. "That don't count officially, man."  
  
"How the hell is that?"  
  
"Yo, man, it's officially tomorrow when you sleep and then wake up the next day. That's when it's tomorrow."  
  
"What?" Manuel half-blurted. "What kind of lazy ass thinkin' is that? People's whacked out and/or lazy ass sleeping schedule does not dictate the world's time standards. That shit don't work out that way."  
  
"So? Don't matter." The two turned around the alleyway into the sidewalk, slowing their stride, still recovering from their mile dash across the neighborhood. "When you sleep, your body audits itself out to balance, so that when you wake up, all your shit inside you's reset for a new day. Thus, your body thinks it's tomorrow, thus it is tomorrow."  
  
Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
Manuel raised an eyebrow towards Benny. "Yo, I keep tellin' you, man, ya gotta stop reading those health mags at the supermarket. It's screwin' with your head. Seriously."  
  
"Make sense, don't it?" Benny replied.  
  
"No, not really. You're just sounding all crazy. I mean, a'ight, even if what you say is true, how could there be a standard for tomorrow if everyone's definition of tomorrow ranges between eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon when your ass gets up?"  
  
Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
Though half of the Washington Heights area was always noisy and loud almost every single minute, it was also relatively desolate almost every night around midnight. The liquor shops and convenience stores were open, and a steady flow of traffic rolled by, but for the most part few dared to walk out in the open around this time, especially being so close to Hell's Kitchen.  
  
"Man, time ain't standard," Benny answered. "I mean, remember al that Einstein shit about relativity or whatever? Time's all, like, fluid and relative or whatever."  
  
"Shit, man you need to . . ." Manuel began.  
  
Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
But tonight was especially dark, and tonight was especially empty. Aside from the lampposts, nothing else was lit. The wind also sharply picked up momentum, and the air was unusually more chill than usual.  
  
"Yo, man, it just got colder than a mother fucker, man. Let's stop by Zips up ahead and get some coffee or whatever," Manuel suggested.  
  
Benny looked around himself, and up ahead. "Is it just me, or is it that this strip's all dead? Damn, man, NO ONE's around here, and most the lights are off."  
  
Benny's voice echoed slightly throughout the walls and the nearby alleyway they just passed. "Shit's freakin' me out a little."  
  
Their feet tapped across the cold hard sidewalk, their tapping bouncing off the walls and zipping back and forth across the street.  
  
Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
"Damn," Manuel muttered. "Washington ain't supposed to be dead like this. Nobody's rollin' by on wheels either."  
  
Tap, tap, ta-ta tap, tap.  
  
Both Benny and Manuel stopped cold in their tracks.  
  
"What the fuck?" Benny breathed.  
  
Ta-tap, ta-tap . . . ta-tap, ta-tap.  
  
Manuel turned around slowly. Behind him, just across the alleyway they crossed, what seemed like a hooded bum was dragging himself across the sides of the building, limping heavily as he was pushing himself against the wall. He was moving away from the two, breathing somewhat heavily as a thick streak of crimson etched behind him.  
  
"Oh, shit, you all right, man?" Manuel asked.  
  
Ta-tap ta-tap . . . ta-tap, ta-tap.  
  
"Damn, that guy's all fucked up," Benny exclaimed.  
  
The bum stopped limping. Pushing his back against the wall, his knees slowly bent until he was sitting down completely. He turned his head to face Benny and Manuel, his eyes staring straight at them.  
  
His pair of eyes - red, wide-open holes stared straight at them.  
  
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap -  
  
"Get . . . out of here," said the man.  
  
Benny's mouth gaped wide open, while Manuel shouted like a mad-man, tugging at Benny's sleeve.  
  
"Yo, let's get the fuck out of here, man! Let's - "  
  
As soon as Manuel turned around to begin his flight, a dark figure stopped him. Rather, a group of dark figures stopped him. And before he could do anything else, the last thing he would see would be a pair of glowing red eyes, burning of heat and fire.  
  
The end of Benny's day, meanwhile, wouldn't see another tomorrow again. 


	2. Early Morning

HALLOWEEN. FIVE HOURS AGO.  
  
B-TOOM.  
  
"Helluva way to start the night off."  
  
Both his pistols were unsheathed, the contrasting silver and black pair of square barrels freed from the crimson-red holsters that bound them while they were inactive and cold. The larger silver sword safely strapped behind his back, the man in red leaned against the alleyway wall, inches from the corner, dodging away from the already subduing explosion. His piercing green eyes steady and relaxed, he was prepared to go back into action again - he just needed mere moments to decide what to do next.  
  
In spite of what happened minutes ago, the man in red breathed slow and deeply. Dry, unscathed, and stoic, his heart pumped slow and steady to the point that he seemed like he was sleeping, or in a coma. The smell of gunpowder reeked on his coat, along with the scent of asphalt and gasoline from the explosion - this man was busy, constantly moving around. But above all, this man in red stood out for this one reason - he was cold. Unusually cold. His body was only slightly warmer than a corpse. His skin barely radiated.  
  
He was cold to the feel, cold to the touch.  
  
This above all, warranted questions.  
  
The man in red shifted his green eyes swiftly. A soft whup echoed from deeper in the dark alleyway. He saw nothing, save the black of darkness, but he knew someone, or something was there. Without a second breath, he whipped his arms into the alleyway, his silver and black square barrels pointing into the darkness. His body followed elegantly behind them, his silver hair streaming close behind him. Behind the barrels, his green eyes pierced the darkness ahead of him.  
  
The darkness replied with a pair of dull, crimson eyes.  
  
"Put the guns down," the pair of crimson eyes asked sternly.  
  
The man in red's green eyes adjusted to the darkness - they had its share of staring into the unknown, and had its share of staring into blacker of scenes. Peeling some layers of shadow away, his green eyes etched a slim, hardened figure behind the crimson eyes, the crimson eyes that coldly replied to his stare.  
  
"I don't ask twice," the eyes said. The guns pointed at them instilled not a shred of fear at all.  
  
The man in red's expression did not change. His eyes slowly revealed the darker crimson that engulfed this figure's form, except for his nose and mouth which were exposed. Horns protruded from the top of the crimson-clad figure's forehead. Though covered in shadow, the letters "DD" were branded square in the middle of his chest.  
  
"Too old to be dressing up for trick-or-treating, aren't you?" the man in red cracked, though his expression remained fixed.  
  
"Too old to be playing Cowboys and Indians, aren't you?" the crimson figure replied, his eyes remaining fixed.  
  
-------------------------------------  
  
HALLOWEEN. EARLY MORNING.  
  
"All right, you want an urban legend? Here's an old one.  
  
"So, like, way back in the 1800's, like 1860's or whatever, there was this real smooth, really rich guy who lived in New York - Samuel Sonata. Some sort of wealthy shipping company owner or something like that - owned the shipping yards that went between Africa and the docks, pushing steel or whatever, right? Anyway, this guy was loaded, this guy had major bank.  
  
"Samuel Sonata had everything, and I mean everything that a guy could ask for back then. Fancy mansion/brownstone, servants, close political association with William Tweed - y'know, that fat dude we learned back in grade school who was all corrupt or whatever - anyway, he was chillin with Willie Tweed, and on top of that, he even had a gang that answered directly to him, unlike most of them other gangs. The Ninth Circle, or something.  
  
"Thing was, though, most of the regular New Yorkers back then hated this guy. The native New Yorkers hated him 'cuz he hired Irish. The Irish hated him because Sonata openly bashed on them. The immigrants hated him because he'd hire Irish for work, taking away their job opportunities - all in all, he was high rollin' business man, but rubbed New York the wrong way. But, no one came out with it because he was so rich and powerful, and he had the Ninth Circle backin' him up too. And back then, the Ninth Circle was the gang not to be messed with.  
  
"Why? Think of it this way - most gangs had thieves, drunkards, poor people, hungry people, people who in general were young, inexperienced, and hotheaded. Pit these guys against a posse of war veterans - crazy war veterans, who probably took part in slaughter, massacre, maybe in some cases cannibalism - figure out who's gonna win.  
  
"So, Samuel Sonata was rolling well, and things were in line even though New York basically had major beefs against him. Then, suddenly, BAM! New York riots. New York became a god-damn war zone. Complete chaos, violence, indiscriminate carnage and destruction. No one was spared. NO ONE. Not even the unstoppable Samuel Sonata.  
  
"As soon as the riots hit, Sonata was one of the first - the neighborhood around him, from 76th to Main St. to even the Four Points, all raided his mansion, killed this guy's kids, raped and pounded this guy's wife to death, beat the living shit of his mistress, took him out on the street, and lynched him on a damn lamppost. And, just for good measure, they drenched him in kerosene and burned this guy to death.  
  
"Hardcore stuff, huh?  
  
"The legend has it that his flaming body burned and lit the chaotic street at night in red, and burned throughout the entire riots until the last day. And all throughout, people could hear him scream, usually faintly in latin - tyrannus a nox noctis, ultio a mi hostis.  
  
" 'Lord of Darkness, revenge on my foes.' "  
  
"On the last day of the riots, when the army finally got control of the city, Sonata's body was never found. Oddly enough, nobody from the Ninth Circle was ever found, dead or alive. Officially, the story goes that the gang split up, and Sonata's body probably burned to ashes. However, the rumors - and thus the legend said otherwise.  
  
"While Sonata was burning to death, he made a deal with the devil - his soul at the services of Satan and hell itself, in exchange for revenge against his enemies, against the people who destroyed him. Basically, against New York - its neighborhoods and classes of people that brought him down.  
  
"And on the last day of the riots, the Ninth Circle took his body and disappeared. The legend varies here a bit - some say that the Ninth Circle weren't human, but a group of wandering devils and demons sent by hell itself, others say that they were merely really weird, cannibalistic folks, but you know, whatever.  
  
"Because of this, as New York went back to normal again, and as time passed by, many people say that especially during Halloween, the Night of Devils, Samuel Sonata's body can be seen, ever so slightly, at the exact spot he was lynched and burned. New Yorkers also say that late at night, from the minute Halloween begins, the Ninth Circle stalks the shadows and alleyways across the neighborhood, doing the bidding of their masters - Sonata, or the Lord of Darkness himself. Why they stalk the neighborhoods, or why Samuel Sonata haunts, the legend doesn't say. Some think that they are ghosts living the lives they once had before New York turned to shit. Others say that they are trying to bring their master, Sonata, back to life.  
  
"Still others, however, hold this theory - and this is the one I find really cool. They say that Sonata's deal with the devil is that Sonata actually does some of the dirty work for hell. Sonata and the Ninth Circle haunt the living, purging the holy, recruiting the evil, yadda yadda, etcera, all that hell shit. In exchange, when the time is right, the devil would grant Sonata his revenge - massacre, destruction, and murder of all his enemies, of the neighborhood, once they would prosper.  
  
"Thus, the legend of the Spirit of Sonata."  
  
Tony took a large swig from his coffee cup.  
  
"Bullshit," said Jack, sitting across from him. "I thought the Spirit of Sonata was like, some sort of musician or something like that."  
  
"I thought Sonata was a woman," said Danny, sitting next to Jack, stuffing a large bite of pancake in his mouth.  
  
"I'll bet you twenty it's true," Tony said.  
  
"Nah, screw that. I'll bet you the bill you're full of it," Jack said.  
  
"Who we gonna ask?" Danny muttered through a stuffed mouth of bacon and egg.  
  
Tony rubbed his chin. "Authoritative source. We gotta ask someone who knows their shit. Um, hmmm . . ."  
  
"I got this," Jack interrupted. "Waitress! Yo, waitress, come on over for a sec, we got a question to ask you!"  
  
The waitress moved her way across the particularly empty diner and stood in front of the three.  
  
"How may I help you?" asked the waitress.  
  
"The Spirit of Sonata legend - musician, woman, or some rich dude?"  
  
The waitress shrugged. "Isn't it some sort of song or something?"  
  
"Ah, shit," Tony said. "We gotta find -"  
  
"The Sonata Legend is, for the most part, true."  
  
Tony, Jack, Danny, and the waitress turned to find the speaker, who was sitting just behind Tony at the corner of the Diner.  
  
"You got most of the legend down," the speaker said again, his silver long hair partially covering his green eyes.  
  
"That so?" Tony remarked, craning his head across the booth to see him.  
  
"The story's good for the most part, except for two things. First, your Latin's off by a longshot, though you got the translation down ok. Secondly, the Ninth Circle ghosts? They're not demons. They're Sin-Eaters. Not a big difference, for the most part, but Sin-Eaters are more shadowy and evil-like than demons."  
  
The silver-haired man stood up from the table, his money already left on the table as he made his way out of the diner.  
  
"And how the hell do you know all that?" asked Jack, half-coyly.  
  
"Let's just say that I know these things," the silver-haired man said. He nodded to the waitress. "Thanks for breakfast." 


	3. Early Evening

HALLOWEEN. EARLY EVENING.  
  
"Someone please tell me why our reception smells like squash."  
  
Foggy Nelson scratched his head in confusion, figuring out the answer to Matt Murdock's question as he glared around the room, and in particular the several dozen carved pumpkins that lined the walls and formed a pile on top of the coffee table.  
  
"Yeah, Jennifer, why is it that we have enough pumpkins to out-last the Hobgoblin?"  
  
The secretary shrugged. "You told me to."  
  
"I said 'be generous' to those kids. Not clean out their inventory."  
  
"Kids, Foggy?" Matt Murdock asked.  
  
"Yeah. The third-grade class of Mid-town elementary was doing some sort of fund-raiser, selling carved pumpkins and stuff for their class trip to Washington or whatever. I decided, what the hell, and help the kids out, you know? Might as well theme up the office for a bit, too." Foggy grunted. "But I didn't mean buy out the entire third grade!"  
  
"It was for a good cause!" Jennifer retorted.  
  
"Well, you're cleaning this up once Halloween's over. You're gonna need a freakin' dump truck or something to get rid of all this -" Foggy paused. "Wait, how much did all this cost?!"  
  
Jennifer hesitated for a second. "Well, with about three dollars a pumpkin, and about, oh, I'd say thirty, forty pumpkins -"  
  
Foggy gaped his mouth open. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Waitaminute, I didn't want to spend THAT much. Geez, I -"  
  
"Foggy, it's okay," Matt cut in. "After all, it is for a good cause." Matt grinned in amusement. "Just take comfort in the fact that you helped the Third Grade of Mid-Town Elementary towards sending them to Washington DC."  
  
Patting Foggy's shoulder, he made his way back into his office. "But yeah, at least put a few of them outside. I think some of them were WAY past their expiration date."  
  
Finding his desk, Matt took a deep breath as he sat down while his fax machine came to life, spitting out a sheet of lined bumps that landed on the tray. Snatching the paper from the machine, his fingers ran through the lines of Braille, reading through the letter - Dear Mr. Murdock and Mr Nelson, hello my name is so and so, I would like to have your office represent my case, yadda yadda -   
  
Placing the note on top of his desk, Matt took off his sunglasses and rested his face on his head. No rest, no rest at all. God knew the last time he actually slept longer than three hours a night. The recent string of cases his office had taken on was seriously beginning to take its toll.  
  
Not that running around in red tights for the majority of everyone else's sleeping hours helped matters much either.  
  
Matt sighed. "Eh, you can sleep when you're dead."  
  
Foggy crept himself into Matt's office.  
  
"Matt, you look like shit," he remarked.  
  
"Yeah, it's the pumpkins."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"No."  
  
Foggy made his way to right in front of Matt's desk. "You know, you should consider sleeping throughout the ENTIRE night more often? I think that Daredevil's put enough overtime for a couple weeks, huh?"  
  
"You're right," Matt replied. "I think I'll probably cut down on my runs after Halloween. You know, relax a little before Thanksgiving?"  
  
"Screw that," Foggy said. "Start now. It's Halloween, and it's a Friday night. Parties and drink specials across New York. C'mon, let's go drink."  
  
"Hey, maybe I can dress up as Daredevil AND go out at the same time," Matt remarked.  
  
"Yeah, and probably win a couple costume contests."  
  
"Because no Daredevil look-alike can beat the original."  
  
"Yeah, but a Frankenstein or two might."  
  
Matt shrugged. "I don't know. It's gonna be crazy tonight, for sure. The Kitchen's going to get crazy."  
  
"No more than it usually is. C'mon, let the police or Spider-Man take care of it tonight." Foggy went behind the desk and pushed Matt's rolling chair away from the desk. "You, my friend, need to cut loose."  
  
*Oh God, somebody help me!*  
  
Matt suddenly shot up from his seat.  
  
*Jesus! Help me, somebody! Please!*  
  
Hearbeat. Two blocks away. Female. Mid-twenties. Heart beating rapidly.   
  
"Matt, what's up?"  
  
Breathing short. Ribs injured. She ran. She was probably chased. Injured heavily. Mugging? Beating?  
  
But only one set of heartbeats. Still, sounds of . . . something attacking her.  
  
"Foggy?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'll take you up on that offer in a little bit. I'll be back."  
  
"Daredevil out to make a quick errand?"  
  
"Yeah. I'll call you later."  
  
------------------------------------------------  
  
HALLOWEEN. FIVE HOURS AGO.  
  
"Too old to be dressing up for trick-or-treating, aren't you?" the man in red cracked, though his expression remained fixed.  
  
"Too old to be playing Cowboys and Indians, aren't you?" the man in crimson replied, remaining fixed and motionless.  
  
"These things don't fire themselves," the man in red responded.  
  
The man with the crimson eyes and the horns remained unamused.  
  
"Are we going to have to dance, you and me?" the man in red uttered. 


	4. Two Days Ago

HALLOWEEN. EVENING.  
  
One by one, they charged after him. Relentless, ruthless, furiously they tore away anything tbat stood in their way with their formlessly solid claws as 57th Avenue transformed into a long, narrow junkyard. About as quickly as they plowed through the street in their pursuits did they change form. At first they were merely a thick shroud of black, shapeless like clouds and formless like haze. Then they became humans; rather, shadows of humans. Their shapeless black fogs collected into the forms of human bodies, defined and separated as independent identities.  
  
Their count began to increase as well. First, two. Then,three. Then, four. And as these human shadows took shape, and as these shadows dashed their legs across the pavement, sharp angles began to protrude from their backs. Their hands melded into longer, finer points and blades. Their shoulders broadened. Glowing red eyes began to burn furiously on their heads. And all the while, the things that grew out of their back formed even larger geometries that made what were unmistakeably as wings.  
  
The shadow men became shadow-beasts. And as they drew closer towards the man with the green eyes, they leapt silently into the air, taking flight, while the others tapped the asphalt below them. A car stood in the way of one particular beast, which shortly took flight and collided against the side of the building as the beast tossed it out the way as if it was nothing. All four of them were silent, but it was obvious what their purpose was - to destroy the man that stood in front of them.  
  
The man with the green eyes snorted, his long red trenchcoat billowing behind him.  
  
"Let's rock, baby."  
  
As the first of the four rapidly approached him by foot, he instantly leapt into the air, elegantly flipping his body as he went over the beast. Still in the air, he drew his silver and black pistols from their holsters and began to breathe life into them again. They kicked back rapidly as sparks after sparks of yellow shot at the shadowy monster.  
  
----------------------------  
  
HALLOWEEN. EARLIER.  
  
"Dante? Please wait here. The good Doctor will be with you shortly."  
  
Dante nodded affirmitively. "Busy with another client?"  
  
The secretary made his way towards the large set of red doors that closed the main office behind them. "Just surfing the Astral Plane, making sure the forces of darkness don't threaten our realm of existence."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, "He does this often?" Dante asked.  
  
"Just the daily grind for him, you know? Besides, today is the day of darkness. Speaking of which," the secretary opened the red doors and stepped into the office. "Help yourself to some candy. Just remember to leave some for the kids later on tonight." The secretary disappeared into the darkened room, the red doors shutting behind him.  
  
Dante leaned against the wall next to his sword which was leaning next to him. Crossing his arms, he waited patiently as he began to reflect on the case he was currently cracking.  
  
The facts so far: New York sucked. The city was too high on itself to be gritty, too pretentious to have character. New Yorkers were too facetious, superficial, bitter, jaded, or just plain stupid to tolerate. On top of that, they sold five-dollar hot dogs. Not to mention that Dante had no idea just how he would go about continuing the case in the first place.  
  
Dante had nothing invested in this case, and his return would have been minimal. He wouldn't have been here in New York had it not been for the particular way his client convinced him to hop aboard on what he had just now dubbed the "Shit City, USA" case.  
  
"Please, these people don't deserve this," his client said to him two days ago as he stood in front of Dante's desk, in the Devil May Cry office.  
  
"Why should I get involved then? Or, for that matter, how can I trust you?" Dante retorted. "You're a soldier of Hell. You can't even use my front door right. Anyone tell you that the sun-roof is NOT a legitimate entrance?"  
  
His client smiled. "You're clever. Fast. Just like your father."  
  
Dante stood up from his seat surprised. "You knew my father?"  
  
"Heh," Ultimar muttered. "Sparda and I used to fight together milennia ago. I was there with him even up to his insurrection."  
  
"Then . . . why are you still alive?"  
  
"I was one of his close allies that did not partake in his decision to stand up against Azazel himself. However, once Sparda began openly fighting against the forces of Hell, I was also one of his close allies that refused to hunt him down when our dark Lord ordered it. Thus, as you can probably deduce, I am still a mere grunt rather than a powerful overlord that I should have been by now."  
  
Several moments of silence passed between Dante and Ultimar, as both of them lowered their heads and sighed in remembrance.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" Dante asked, finally breaking the silence. "Why, after so long, are you defying your lord again? And why me?"  
  
"Because, Son of Sparda," Ultimar began, raising his head to stare at him. "I've seen Sonata's designs and served his petty thirsts and desires while he was still a mortal." He sighed deeply. "His plan - this plan, is so destructive. So wrathful. So powerful that it has even made Azazel's eyes glaze with glee. And all this for what? Because some foolish third-rate mortal from ages ago wants vengeance over petty rage? Anger? Simple wrath over glutton?"  
  
Ultimar nodded his head. "No, these mortals do not deserve this. I can no longer see Hell's plans be executed over petty reasons. I can no longer partake in this. And I do not desire to see these designs go through.  
  
"And I asked you because only you can stop them."  
  
The question he needed to find out now, was where to continue, how to stop them from -  
  
"Dante?" addressed the secretary, emerging from the red doors.  
  
Dante raised his head to glance at him.  
  
"Dr. Strange is now ready to see you." 


	5. Five Hours Ago

HALLOWEEN. FIVE HOURS AGO.  
  
Bam bam badda bam badda bam badda bam badda bam badda bam.  
  
Fast. Very fast. His fingers on each gun tensed and relaxed in almost millisecond intervals. Yet his hands remained steady, remained firm. The arms behind his hands were firmly planted behind the guns even as they kicked back and forth, yet relaxed - not a single pull of nervous tension was strung on his forearms. Clearly, the man with green eyes knew what he was doing.  
  
So did the man with the red eyes and the devil horns. Even before each bullet was fired, he could hear the clicking of the bullets loading successively in the chambers of each gun, and could hear the almost inaudible swooshing sound of the guns moving around and aiming at him as he swiftly dodged each bullet. He flipped backwards, to the side. P-tow p-tow ,replied the bullets that chased after him. He bounced himself onto one of the alleyway walls, diving towards the other wall. P-tow p-tow. He had bounced his crimson body between both walls, pushing himself elegantly up towards the roof. P-tow p-tow. Almost instantly he disappeared into the rooftops, disappearing through the dark edges of the building. P-tow p-tow.  
  
The man with the green eyes, however, refused to relax his aim. His eyes leading his guns across the edges of the rooftops, he was far from foolish - his dance hadn't even begun yet, but he knew his partner wasn't one to quit easy, especially before the music started. His hands were relaxed. His trigger fingers were attentively loose. The silver and black metallic barrels softly reflected the lights outside on the street as he analytically scanned his aim carefully, watching, waiting . . ..   
  
As the soft whup hit the concrete ground behind him, the man with the green eyes spun around instinctively and whippped his guns in front of him, his fingers tensing and ready to fire. But before either of the hammers of his gun hand a chance to reel back and shoot forward, a long crimson-red cylinder launched towards his face and hit him squarely in the jaw, hard enough to send his head reeling back temporarily. Hard enough for him to lose attention for just the right amount of milliseconds as a swift kick from the crimson figure swung through his hands, kicking away the guns they held. Both his hands swung away to the green eyed man's right.  
  
But as quickly as the silver-haired man snapped his head back, before the sounds of his guns could hit the alleyway walls, his right hand swung around to the back of his hilt and drew them out, swinging downward at the crimson-man just before he could launch a punch towards him. A horizontal swing instantaneously followed - the crimson man leaned back just as the sword passed above him; as an upward slash followed, the crimson man flipped forward, dodging the blade unscathed.  
  
The crimson man managed to kick away Ebony and Ivory. Not an easy task by any means. Rarely has the green-eyed man lost possession of his guns in battle. Nor was it an easy task to dodge this man's blade.  
  
Clearly, the man with the red eyes knew what he was doing, too.  
  
That conclusion didn't stop the green-eyed man as he thrust the tip of his sword at the crimson man as he finished his evasive flip. The crimson man sidestepped the blade, but not as it managed to cause a shallow cut through the left side of his lower body.  
  
"Aggghhh!!!!!" Not enough to stop him from throwing a left jab at the green-eyed man's face, knocking it back as a right uppercut struck his stomach. A left kick followed up on his chest to blow him back a couple feet, losing his balance as he landed on the cold concrete ground flat on his back, sword still in hand.  
  
The man with the red eyes, the crimson man with horns on his head and the letters "DD" etched across his chest, stood firmly and coldy in front of the green-eyed eyed man, fists clenched commandingly at his side, his right hand tightly grasping a long, red stick.  
  
The man with the green eyes grinned, looking up at his opponent's red eyes, at his opponent's two D's on his chest. He rubhed his jaw gently for a moment.  
  
"Huh, you must be him, then," he said, pushing himself off the ground, landing squarely on his feet. "The one who pretends to be a devil. The one they say who stalks the darkness at night around these streets. The one they say is the man without fear."  
  
Dante raised his blade, pointing the tip towards the red-eyed man. "You're Daredevil."  
  
Daredevil coldly stared back at Dante's green eyes, his blind eyes in line with his through his mask's red eye lenses. "Good. You've figured that out. Now - WHO . . . ARE . . . YOU?!"  
  
"Dante," he replied.  
  
"And what the hell are you doing here?" Daredevil asked sternly.  
  
"Huh-uh," Dante taunted in reply. "We still have a number to finish, big boy."  
  
Daredevil's lips pursed slightly. "Fine," he spat.  
  
The cold, autumn-night draft sifted between them as neither spoke for tense, cold, long moments. Dante refused to lower his blade at his opponent. Daredevil refused to yield his stand at his opponent . . . .  
  
And then, snap. Drop of the dime. Both Dante and Daredevil charged at each other. Dante swung his blade downwards at Daredevil, who reacted with a dodge. Dante swung right, which connected with Daredevil's long red billy club. Pushing back against Dante's blade, Daredevil clenched his club with both hands, struggling against the force of the blade imminently ready to kill him.  
  
Snap. Dante kicked Daredevil's left foot away, and as the crimson-eyed man lost his balance and began falling towards the ground, Dante struck Daredevil swiftly at his forehead with the hilt of his sword. As soon as Daredevil hit the ground, a vertical swing careened at his midsection. He rolled away as the blade clanged against the hard ground. Wasting no time, he launched himself back on his feet and charged at Dante again, leaping into the air at the last minute as Dante twitched. As his body arced over Dante's head, Daredevil launched half of his billy club at Dante's head, his right hand still clutching the other half.  
  
Dante reacted by catching the club with his left hand, yanking the jumping-crimson Daredevil towards him, grabbing underneath his left arm, and throwing him out of the alleyway and onto the street. Daredevil slammed on his back when he landed from the throw, and he rolled himself into a crouch, raising his head to face a slowly approaching Dante.  
  
Daredevil's right side was padded with the distant heat from the explosion down the street that, apparently, Dante had caused.  
  
"People live here," Daredevil growled. "This explosion . . . .these shapeshifting demons . . . all this chaos . . . " Daredevil gritted his teeth as he stood up, Dante now merely feet away and at striking distance . . . .  
  
". . . did you do this? Is this you?!!" 


	6. Afternoon

HALLOWEEN. AFTERNOON.  
  
Distance. Space. Borders. Limits. When the red door closed behind him, all visual evidence of an office room disappeared. No windows. No desk. Ceiling fixtures were non-exiistent. The ceiling itself seemed non-existent. Instead, billions upon billions of small, miniscule stars spread out across the seemingly infinite, boundless room. The stars pierced through the otherwise pitch-black darkness, and they floated gently, their motions continuous as forever though slow.  
  
Their multitude of colors, of moving glitter of stars, seemed to stream freely - however, some, especially those that licked underneath Dante's feet, flowed slightly more heavy and slightly more quickly towards what seemed to be like a miniature galaxy. However, instead of the stars spiraling uniformly towards the center, the stars converged into a swirling, gray-white shroud that covered the center of the forming miniature galaxy. While the cloud was tall, it began to thin rapidly, its heavy-whire shroud concentrations disappearing slowly, making the scene behind it more apparent, revealing little by little the man who controlled this model universe of his in his own office . . .   
  
Navy-blue tunic. Navy-blue pants. Long red cape. Gold on the edges of his cape and clothing. A mustached face with black eyes, the whites of his eyes glowing slightly green. Hair on the sides of his head that was the silver of age, of wisdom, of experience. Unmistakably floating in the air, above the galaxy's center below him, this particular man focused his glowing eyes on the silver-hair man in front of him, shortly before Dante himself cordially said -  
  
"Dr. Stephen Strange," Danta nodded, and bowed in humble acknowledgement. "The slayer of Dormammu, and Memphisto's imprisoner."  
  
Dr. Strange nodded acknowledgingly. "Dante, Son of Sparda, the half-devil hunter, slayer of Mundus."  
  
Dante raised his head. "It is an honor to finally meet you in person, Master Mystic. Your reputation and history with the other realms have made you highly respected - and highly feared."  
  
"Likewise, hunter," Dr. Strange replied. He floated down from above the spiraling galaxy below his toes, which dissipated as soon as he left. "Your reputation has also commanded high respect and acknowledgement as well." Strange finished by hovering on the same level that Dante was standing. "Being able to slay a High Lord of Hell is extraordinarily difficult, I must say."  
  
"So is slaying one of existence's worst rogue dark realm lords as well," Dante retorted.  
  
Dr. Strange extended his hand, gripping Dante's extended right hand and firmly shaking it before releasing his hand again. Danted nodded in return.  
  
"So, Son of Sparda, how may I be of hunble assistance?"  
  
"Dr. Strange, I am looking for some information. On a resurfacing. A return. An unholy resurrection."  
  
"You will have to be more specific than that, demon hunter. It is the Devil's Night tonight - many unholy uprisings and resurrections are about in this reality." Stephen Strange's eyes began to glow green more fiercely.  
  
"This resurfacing will tatke place here," Dante said. "New York, around this area. Close to your backyard in fact, master mystic."  
  
Dr. Strange sighed in recognition. "Ah, yes, him. The spirit from not too long ago." Plumes of smoke began to circle around him, and more began to cover Dante's feet, while a wall of smoke rose behind Dante's back. The smoke flashed and glowed neon green, and a column of smoke spiraled between Dante and Strange - formless at first, then, more defined. Then, transparent.  
  
And then, an image formed from the smoke that formed inside the now transparent sphere. Rather, a predominant image atop swarms of black shadows that ran past him beneath his feet. This predominant image formed the shape of a human male. Milky skin. Black, long hair. Cleanly shave goatee. Piercing auburn eyes. And a black, mid 1800's suit that neatly covered his body underneath a longer, heavier black overcoat. And as this image raised its right hand, conjuring red flame from his palms, it began to silently laugh manically, as if both overjoyed and tortured at the same -   
  
"The spirit from days not far. The spirit of pride - and glutton. The Spirit of Samuel Sonata."  
  
Dante raised an eye. "What do you know of Sonata?"  
  
"Alas, Son of Sparda, I know much of Sonata - or should I say, the demon formerly known of Sonata." Strange reached his left hand palms down above the Sonata sphere. Smoke enveloped the sphere, covering the dark shadows and the Samuel Sonata figure. "Indeed, you are correct in your inquiry - he is planning to resurface, and tonight of all nights as well."  
  
"You know?" Dante asked. "Do you plan on stopping him from fulfilling his vengeance?"  
  
"Unfortunately, I do not," Dr. Strange replied. Before Dante could interject, Strange continnued, "I know that my decision sounds unsavory at first, considering the conditions. But already I have far greater challenges and evils that I must slay tonight/"  
  
"Greater than an unholy resurrection?"  
  
"Unfortunately, yes. There are far greater evils that threaten our realm of existence, even ones that you don't know about, demon hunter." Dr. Strange looked away, sighing distraughtfully. "It is a compromise that I hate having to make, but it is a compromise that I have chosen, and will not back down now."  
  
Turning an eye towards Dante, Strange grinned. "However, I believe it is a compromise in which the choice I have made is faithfully correct."  
  
Dante raised an eyebrow once again. "How so?"  
  
"Well, Son of Sparda, look around you once you leave here. You are in a city of heroes. Heroes who have slain powerful foes and demons themselves. Any one (and probably all) of them will rise to the challenge Sonata will set forth.  
  
"And besides, YOU'RE here, aren't you?"  
  
------------------------------------------  
  
HALLOWEEN. LESS THAN FIVE HOURS AGO.  
  
". . . did you do this? Is this you?!!" Daredevil growled.  
  
"Well, Devil-boy," Dante smirked, Ebony and Ivory resting on his hips. underneath their holsters, "You at least got part of the story right. Like I said, these guns don't shoot themselves." Dante cracked a grin. "Nor do cars blow themselves up." 


	7. Evening

HALLOWEEN. EVENING.  
  
One fell down from the sky, crashing ontop a run-down Buick. Breaking the windshield, the shadow-winged, humanoid creature flailed its arms and legs in the air, twitching spastically to death as bits and pieces of itself began to evaporate. Clearly, it was dead, and if it was dead before, then it was re-dead.  
  
Another fell down into its knees, as its shadow-winged, humanoid form violently split in half by a particularly large, sharp silver blade. All it needed to do was find a moment of failure, and the blade took advantage of it and split the monster in two. Clearly, it, too, was dead, and if it was dead before, then it was re-dead.  
  
That still left two more to deal with, and even for Dante, these beasts were getting too close. And frankly, too annoying.  
  
"Hmph," Dante grunted. One of the shadow creatures on the ground managed to launch Dante across the street and into a large SUV back-first. He couldn't muster enough time to be fully annoyed at the attack he just received when a large shadow-claw careened towards his face from overhead. Dante ducked just in time for the claw to penetrate through the driver's side door, and a brief look up revealed the second remaining shadow creature perched atop the roof of the SUV.  
  
And then instinct. Dante rolled away milliseconds before another claw could tear away his heart, as it plowed through the passenger-side door. The first monster apparently wasn't wasting time with his barrage.  
  
Both of the monsters were keeping pace with him. Keeping pace with him so well that they were becoming enough of a handful - and Dante didn't have time for this. He needed to end these creatures very soon, and he didn't want to waste his strength on these jokers doing it.  
  
Snap. Instinct. As Dante recovered from his evasive roll, his eyes caught glimpse of a small square etching on the side of the SUV, near the rear end. Unmistakeably knowing what it is, Dante drew Ebony and Ivory again, and before the two shadow demons could re-shift their eyes at their target again, holes ripped open across the fuel hatch of the vehicle, and across the fuel tank.  
  
Dante's red coat disappeared into the nearest alleyway; and before the creatures would leap away to evade their incoming fate - BOOM.  
  
-------------------------------------  
  
LESS THAN FIVE HOURS AGO.  
  
"And what about those shape-shifting demons? What the hell are they?" Daredevil asked sternly, his arms folded across his chest.  
  
"It seems you've seen them, too?" Dante replied.  
  
"Something like that . . . "  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
EVENING.  
  
"Please . . . don't . . . don't . . . " the woman futily shrieked. The smell of iron from her blood that covered the right side of her body. The sweat that soaked her face, neck, and underarms, disspating the rose-scent perfume on her clothes. The racing heartbeat inside her chest that seemed to rattle her rib-cage. The warm breath that radiated out of her mouth as she shrieked. All this was more than enough to tell him that she was human.  
  
The figure who towered above her, however, with what seemed like a giant blade as its right arm, was something else completely. If it wasn't its cold body that almost blew past Murdock like a chill wind, if it wasn't for the smell of ash and burnt meat that reeked across its body, if it wasn't for the woman's shriek that bounced off its deformed body, if it wasn't for the almost inaudible growl that only few could hear - this thing would have been invisible to Matt. And he would not have an idea how to save this woman.  
  
The thing raised its right-arm blade. Daredevil clutched his long red club. The thing tightened into a ready-striking position. Daredevil raised his club to his face. The thing thrust its blade down at the woman -   
  
- and a red club struck its head, reeling the demon-thing back, its blade missing the woman's chest by inches as it struck cold concrete. The thing pulled its blade back and shook its head, steadying its eyes to glare upon the fool who dared try to attack him right up front. But nothing. The narrow alleyway was empty, devoid of even the woman whose life it was about to end. Frantically, its eyes scanned the scene before it, trying to comprehend how its unseen enemy could strike it so swiftly, trying to comprehend how its prey could disappear so -   
  
Wham. Two feet suddenly hammered the shadow creature from behind, sending it flailing forward, a screaming "aaaaaarrrrrrrrgggghhhh" accompanying its brief flight. Still ont its feet, having been sent several yards forward, the creature spun around and growled furiously, extending its wings on its back and preparing to strike. The creature's opponent was still swift however, as the crimson figure in front of it closed the distance between them in milliseconds and slammed his left fist across its head.  
  
The creature's opponent was swift, indeed. WHAM. Right fist to its head. WHAM. Left fist to its chest. WHAM. Right uppercut to its lower body. WHAM. Left kick to its neck, and before its knew it, WHAM, right foot slamming upwards at the creature's chin as Daredevil flip-kicked himself backwards to finish his assault. The creature had no choice but fly into the air and land flat on its back, seemingly crippling the wings behid it. SNAP, the wings shouted as it was sandwiched between asphalt and the creature's body.  
  
Silently, the creature's body melted into a formless puddle, and as it began to slither itself away, deeper in the alley, it began to hiss loudly, "Foolish mortal. You should never have crossed us. We will return again tonight to make you pay." It disappeared into the shadow, and into Murdock's sightless horizon.  
  
The woman, meanwhile, moaned softly from her wounds on a fire escape balcony five stories above. Daredevil leapt into the air, bouncing himself off opposite walls and gained altitude until he landed next to the woman. He silently crouched near her, tapped the window next to her, and as the window opened to reveal a frightened old man, Matt began to speak.  
  
"Miss, you'll be okay. The . . . thing only hurt muscle. Just apply direct pressure until help comes." Matt turned his head towards the frightened man standing inside the building. "Sir, please call 911. This woman will need to see a -"  
  
BOOM.  
  
Five blocks away. The explosion had heavy bass, which meant heavy vehicle, large gas tank . . . SUV. Too crisp. No hiss of initial burning - the explosion was made by force, by puncture. Bullets. On top of that, he heard the same growls he heard from the creature he just fought moments ago - only, there were two sets of growls, not one.  
  
There were more of these things. And they looked like they were going to spread across the neighborhood.  
  
This, Daredevil could not neglect.  
  
"Call EMS. I have to go."  
  
----------------------------------  
  
LESS THAN FIVE HOURS AGO.  
  
"Sin Eaters," Daredevil said, trying to reaffirm Dante's response.  
  
"Sin Eaters," Dante said, reassuring his answer.  
  
"So they're demons from hell. That morph."  
  
"They eat souls, too. Well, rather, they eat the sins of the souls they take and consume."  
  
Daredevil shook his head, half hoping Dante's heart would skip or stumble, disappointed that it didn't. Dante wasn't bullshitting him.  
  
"You're not bullshitting me, huh?" Daredevil said.  
  
"No more than you dressed up in underwear," Dante replied.  
  
"Why are you here?" Daredevil continued.  
  
"To stop them."  
  
"Who runs these things?"  
  
"Hard to explain."  
  
"Underworld, Hell stuff?"  
  
"Sort of. Hard to explain."  
  
"Try me."  
  
"No time."  
  
"Then make the time. Now."  
  
"I'll explain on the way."  
  
"Are we going somewhere?" Daredevil said.  
  
"I am," Dante said.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"That's a secret," Dante answered.  
  
"Fine. At least tell me this - how many more of these 'Sin Eaters' are there?"  
  
Growls. Daredevil could hear them again. Four blocks away. Approaching fast. Daredevil raised his head to pay closer attention.  
  
"More are coming, aren't there?" Dante commented.  
  
"Yes," Daredevil said.  
  
"Well, to answer your last question," Dante said, drawing his guns, pulling the hammers back on both Ebony and Ivory. "More. Far more than you or I could ever deal with if you take them all on without hitting the source."  
  
Dante raised both of his guns to his head and began pacing slowly down the street, patiently waiting for the creatures to arrive.  
  
"So, crimson eyes, is that costume merely for looks, or are you going to make yourself useful?" 


	8. Four Hours Ago

HALLOWEEN. FOUR HOURS AGO.  
  
**Watch to Night Owl, come in, over.**  
  
**This is Night Owl, go ahead.**  
  
**Night Owl, Watch has received reports of several disturbances in North Washington through Hell's Kitchen. Aerial recon requested, over.**  
  
**Hoo boy, here we go. Every Halloween as always. Swear, never changes.**  
  
**Reports of gunfire and a vehicular explosion received --**  
  
**Just one explosion? Man they're taking it easy this year.**  
  
**Last reported disturbance on 115th and Washington.**  
  
**Roger, Watch. Headed to 115th and - waitaminute, what the hell is that? Jesus, that thing's HUGE! Uh, uh . . . **  
  
**Night Owl, report status, over.**  
  
**Watch, this is Night Owl. You won't believe this, but there's this giant . . . horned, man-lizard thing, taking up half the entire street! It looks like it's holding someone, dressed in red tights or some- wait, wait, Jesus, it just flung that guy right through the glass display of some store! Jesus, Bicks, get on the loudspeakers!  
  
THIS IS THE NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT. REMAIN RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE, DROP WHATEVER YOU HAVE IN YOUR HANDS RIGHT NOW, AND PLACE THEM SLOWLY BEHIND YOUR HEAD.  
  
Night Owl to Watch. Requesting units as soon as possible to - Bicks, what's it - what the fuck?! Oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIIIIIIIII - - - **  
  
----------------------------------  
  
FA-BOOM.  
  
The blue and white helicopter erupted in flames, as its entire frame was shattered. Even its proppellers split into two blades that shot across the night sky at high velocity. The helicopter did not just explode - it evaporated.  
  
The crimson man, meanwhile, struggled onto his feet, coughing drops and sprays of blood out of his exposed mouth. First on all fours, his hands lifted off the glass-shattered floor. His knees, covered in pieces of glass, extended straight. His shoulders pulled back, his arms dangling loosely by his side. He coughed more blood. His arms began to tighten. His hands raised to his head, his right hand clutched the crimson rod. He stopped wobbling. He stopped shaking.  
  
Daredevil was smacked around harder than anything else in his life.  
  
But Matt Murdock wasn't ready to give up just yet. Stepping back out into the street, Daredevil turned to face his opponent again.  
  
The horned lizard giant, with fire that Matt sensed heat through its hands, through its eyes, through its mouth - the horned lizard giant laughed boastfully into the air, rippling the stoic steady evening with the rumble of its roar.  
  
"Fool," it said, "You stand no chance against me, and yet you dare to face me again?" The giant roared in laughter again. "You are a most certainly fearless man. You are also most certainly foolish as well. Get out of my way before I rid you."  
  
Daredevil stood firm, stood silent, stood still.  
  
"Fine, then," the giant said. "Then let me show you why, for eternity and beyond, why --  
  
I AM CALLED BANISHMENT!  
  
--------------------------  
  
HALLOWEEN. OVER FOUR HOURS AGO.  
  
CRACK. WHAM. WHUP. BAM. The Sin-Eater was shot backwards while Daredevil unrelentlessly continued his barrage, closing the gap between them with fists, feet, and the crimson club as the creature was pushed back with blows.  
  
"Hey D," Dante uttered, interrupting his thought momentarily as he sliced upward at the shadow creature in front of him in half, "you should probably reconsider your weapon choice. That stick of yours isn' going to kill any -"  
  
CRACK. WHAM. WHUP. CHOK. Daredevil drove his billy club through the creature's chest and pulled out as the creature disintegrated away, the last of the assault that came.  
  
"Never mind," Dante said, before muttering under his breath, "Sticks and stones my butt."  
  
"I'm fine with the arsenal I have," Daredevil spat.  
  
"It's not going to be enough to get rid of bigger fry," Dante countered.  
  
Daredevil remained silent.  
  
--------------------------  
  
"Now," Banishment proclaimed, "feel the wrath of my power, feel the mettle of my strength, feel the fear of my -"  
  
FZZZZ-OOOOM.  
  
The hairs that raised. The tingle he felt. The burnt chalk he scented. The sound he heard. Daredevil couldn't see, but he knew - his opponent just felt a lightning bolt strike smack dab on its head.  
  
"WHO -- WHO DARES STRIKE UPON THE LIKES OF BANISH -"  
  
WHAP.  
  
Banishment reeled forward from the impact he felt from behind.  
  
"Shut up," said the attacker behind him, "before I make my next pair of boots out of your ass."  
  
"Great . . . " Daredevil muttered underneath his breath..  
  
"Told you to reconsider your weapons, D," Dante replied, flapping his wings behind him, "or you wouldn't look as crappy as you do right now.  
  
"Now stand back and watch the real devil at work." 


	9. Over Four Hours Ago

HALLOWEEN. OVER FOUR HOURS AGO.  
  
"So where to now, D?" Dante asked, sheathing his guns inside his red coat.  
  
"You tell me," Daredevil answered.  
  
"The source," Dante said, "The demon behind this. The demon himself. Sonata."  
  
"Sonata?"  
  
"Sonata."  
  
"Sonata, as in, the Spirit of Sonata?"  
  
"Yes. I already said."  
  
"But how? He's dead. He's been dead for over a hundred years-"  
  
"Well, he's come back to life. Sort of, anyway."  
  
"Sort of?"  
  
"Resurrected."  
  
"Right," Daredevil said, unconvincingly. Daredevil was then silent for a moment. "We get rid of him, we get rid of the monsters."  
  
"Correct." Dante made his way towards his bike parked on the curb, which in spite of everything thus far, remained relatively unscathed. On one side of the rider's end of the bike Daredevil sensed two metallic object that weighed the bike down on one side. Oddly enough, it radiated warmer than normal metals, normal woods, or normal anythings for that matter.  
  
""Where is he?" Daredevil asked.  
  
"Deep under where New York has locked away its secrets. Deep where New York has forgotten its sins."  
  
"Skip the bullshit. Where is he?"  
  
"Deep where this city calls 'Hell's Kitchen.'"  
  
Dante could tell, behind Daredevil's cold and expressionless stature that the devil-costumed figure was taken aback ever so slightly.  
  
"So that's where you're going," Daredevil said.  
  
"Correct again. Keep this up and you'll be on a winning streak." Dante roared his bike back to life. "You should reconsider your weapons. Seriously."  
  
"You know how to get there?" Daredevil asked.  
  
"I'll figure it out," Dante remarked.  
  
"This is my neighborhood."  
  
"Great. I'll race you, then." Dante's bike roared higher and louder before it suddenly darted towards the nearest intersection and turned left, with Dante riding calmly on top.  
  
"Cocky little shit," Daredevil muttered.  
  
----------------------  
  
FOUR HOURS AGO.  
  
"Cocky little shit," Daredevil muttered.  
  
"Now stand back and watch the real devil at work," Dante cracked cockily. As the horned large lizard creature turned around, its feet heavily thumping the ground progressively turning its body around, Banishment received another unexpected surprise; Dante tucked his wings close to his body in midair and dove straight at Banishment's face head-first, spiraling his body like a screwdriver. Dante's sheer velocity was too much for Banishment - the hit to the head knocked the half-giant, half reptile off balance and collapsed on the street back-first . . ..   
  
SLAM.  
  
Daredevil leapt away moments before he would become the flattened thing between Banishment's body and the pavement. Latching his billy club onto a nearby lamp-post. Daredevil swung towards a balcony on a nearby building three stories above the ground and perched himself onto the rail, overseeing the fallen Banishment and the decelerating demon screwdriver known as Dante.  
  
". . . the harder they fall. Never fails," Dante hovered above the fallen Banishment with his wings flapping slowly in the air keeping him afloat.  
  
For the next several minutes, Daredevil's senses were overwhelmed with the battle that took place before him which was nothing short of utterly unbelieveable. What he heard - Dante' deep voice cockily cracking wise, while Banishment's low, furious growl resentfully returning threats. Dante's heartbeat pulsed through Matt Murdock's ears, inaudibly echoing through his head. Heavy, yet slow - Dante, or whatever the hell he was, was just as cool and relaxed as ever.  
  
What he felt - the hairs rise behind his back while a slight tingle rippled through his body shortly after Banishment dared another power-threat. Lightning seemed to pour out of nowhere. Rather, from Dante himself. The building behind him and the porch Matt Murdock was perched on rattled as bolt after bolt of lightning seemed to shoot out of Dante's body and into Banishment.  
  
What he smelled - moisture. Humidity. Vapor, from the shrieks of lightning that flash-heated the surrounding cold air. And charcoal. Fried Chicken. Burned skin. Leather. All these smells from the singes and burns Banishment was suffering at the will of Dante's hands. What he heard then? The rising pitch of Banishment's shrieks of pain, while his arms and legs slammed the street pavement as they flailed in the air . . . .   
  
"Son of Sparda . . . " Banishment groaned, as the last lighting bolt sheared through his chest, "You will pay. You will suffer, you will -"  
  
"Yeah, I know," Dante interrupted, "but you first, gator-skin."  
  
What Daredevil heard - the loud crunch of Dante's sword diving into Banishment's skull, jaggedly splitting it into two.  
  
What Daredevil felt - the heat from Banishment's body rapidly cooling away.  
  
What Daredevil smelled - the scent of sulfur from lava replaced by the scent of coal and dust from a dissipating body.  
  
Meanwhile, his wings had morphed away. His red trenchcoat once again enveloped his body, trailing into the wind. He had already molded back into human form as he dove his sword to deliver Banishment's last moment on Earth . . .  
  
. . . Dante stood alone and victorious in the middle of the street.  
  
And he grinned.  
  
------------------------  
  
ONE HOUR AGO.  
  
. . . Dante fell onto the ground, beaten and defeated in the middle of the chamber.  
  
And his opponent grinned. 


	10. 9:30 PM

HALLOWEEN. 9:30PM. HELL'S KITCHEN.  
  
"This is it?"  
  
"This is it, Devil-boy."  
  
Dante slowed his bike to a halt and killed the hum of the motor while Daredevil landed onto the sidewalk on his feet, facing the current address they both were pursuing.  
  
"This was an old brownstone," Daredevil said, "built back in the 20's. Used to be a private-run psychiatrist clinic. It's been constantly revamped, but almost always faced problems internally." Daredevil cringed his nose slightly at the stench of old brick, dust, and decaying wood that emanated from the building. "Place was condemned just last year as soon as the owner died, and the city plans to tear it down. Eventually"  
  
Dante dismounted the bike and stood next to Daredevil, also looking at the five-story building before them. For lack of a better word, the building was dilapidated. Each of the windows were boarded shut. The building's supposed brick red was now a darkened, weathered crimson, with extreme grayish-red watermarks stretching from the edges of building's trimmings that resembled blood. The steps that led up to the double-door entrance was also faded dark, and the doors themselves were bolted with three metal bars holding them from prying open.  
  
"Is this really the place?" Daredevil said, raising his head to catch any signs of life or activity from inside the building. The building replied with a creepy, resounding silence. "This place is a tomb."  
  
Dante made his way up the steps to the bolted doors and unsheathed his sword. "You know those hairs that are sticking up on the back of your neck?"  
  
"Actually, no," Daredevil replied.  
  
"Aren't you the courageous one."  
  
"No, just fearless," Daredevil cracked with a grin.  
  
"Well then, trust me on this," Dante said. Gripping the hilt with two hands and raising it above his head, Dante thrust the blade through the metal bars, splitting all three in two as they sprang away, freeing the double doors. "New York should have taken this baby down while they had the chance." He kicked the double-doors in, echoing a thunderous boom inside the building and throughout the neighboring block outside.  
  
As the silver-haired man stepped into the darkened building unhindered, Daredevil made his way up the steps but stopped short of the entrance when he felt some lines of bumps on the soles of his feet. Crouching down above the bumps, Daredevil ran his fingers through them and realized they were inscriptions on the concrete, albeit worn and weathered from the years. Running through the lines back and forth, he read:  
  
The sheep haunted by the dark are the sheep welcome into the shephard's home  
  
"I don't think you should come in here just yet," Dante uttered from inside.  
  
"Huh," Daredevil said, standing up and making his way past the doorway. "Why the hell can't I -  
  
"ARRRGHHH!" Heat. Flame. Singing, burning heat. His blood felt like it was flash-boiled. It was as if thousands of needles pierced Matt's skin all at once. It was as if he had been dipped into a pool of acid. It was enough for him to stagger back violently away from the door, landing on his back as he tried to fan the flames from his body.  
  
Only, there were no flames. And as soon as he fell away from the doorway, his body began to cool back to normal.  
  
"Damn it," Dante spat, as he spun around to face Matt . . .   
  
. . . when the doorway, and everything else in front of him, engulfed in black, curtained in shadow.  
  
"Shit."  
  
------------------  
  
You do not belong here.  
  
Your blood is not our blood. Your blood is not tainted.  
  
You are no predator. You are prey.  
  
You are no demon. You are peasant.  
  
Those words rang through Matt's head moments before a lean, cougar-like monster lept out of the building and towards Daredevil on the ground. Instinctively, before the shadowlike cougar-monster could land its claws on him, Matt raised his two feet and kicked it away behind him. Wasting no time, he sprang to his feet and leapt into the air just as the creature charged past him, launching his billy club at the nearest lamppost and swinging away from the building.  
  
Gracefully landing on the sidewalk across from the brownstone, Daredevil faced the monster across the street and tried to "see" his new opponent. The monster was virtually invisible to him - no heartbeat, no signs of heat, no sounds of muscle or bone pulling its joints inside of it. Matt only knew it was a cougar, cat-like creature from the inaudible wind that blew through the street. From the tapping noise its paws made against the ground as it crept towards Daredevil. From the burbling sound he heard below his feet.  
  
Burbling sound?  
  
"Shit." Daredevil leapt away as a narrow, tall, sharpened column shot up from below, narrowly gouging him into two. Daredevil flipped in mid-air as another pike shot up towards him, and as he landed on the ground bounced into a cartweel as a third narrowly missed its skewer.  
  
Daredevil launched his billy club towards the creature, but to no avail - the creature dashed away moments before it was struck. The cable retracting the club back together again, the creature suddenly charged at Matt, covering a dozen yards in what seemed like milliseconds.  
  
"Fast," he muttered.  
  
One of the rarest moments in his life had just struck him - the overwhelming feeling that he was in over his head.  
  
-----------------------  
  
You do not belong here.  
  
Your blood is tainted. Your blood is not black.  
  
You are no wolf. You are a dog.  
  
You are no demon. You are a bastard being.  
  
You are not welcome.  
  
"That's great to hear," Dante said, as in the dimly-lit room, four shadow-like cat monsters surrounded him. The door from which he came was covered and shut in black. "Does that mean no punch and pie for me?"  
  
Get out.  
  
"You guys going to tell me where Sonata is, or am I going to have to slay it out of you?"  
  
Get out, Son of Sparda.  
  
"The hard way. Always has to be the hard way," Dante sighed.  
  
------------------------  
  
HALLOWEEN. ONE HOUR AGO.  
  
. . Dante fell onto the ground, beaten and defeated in the middle of the chamber.  
  
Standing over Dante was his opponent, whose pale-white hands were engulfed in flames of blue, whose ghastly-white, pupil-less eyes steamed glowing blue, whose pitch-black overcoat blew back behind him as he summoned the flames of blue to grow more potent.  
  
One of the rarest moments in Dante's life had just struck him - the overwhelming feeling that he was in over his head.  
  
And his opponent grinned. 


End file.
